


Injuries

by lindenwaverly



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Green Lantern (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Racism, anti-Semitism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 05:37:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2496422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindenwaverly/pseuds/lindenwaverly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hal is great at protecting everyone but himself. When Bruce realises how much of a problem this is for him, he decides to fix it.</p><p>Or - Bruce attempts to convince Hal that he needs to learn combat training so he can protect himself without giving away his secret identity and Hal resists every single useful suggestion because he is a stupid stubborn child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Injuries

Alfred was hovering. Normally Bruce would have found it comforting, but it was beginning to grate on him. It was as if Alfred couldn't trust him to patch Hal up, when he was perfectly able to deal with injuries to this extent and he didn't have time to call Alfred when he was bought it. He suppressed another shiver from the cold, suppressed the blistering boiling rage under his skin. It was an irrelevance. 

He peeled off the surgical gloves and flicked them into the sink with theatrical irritation.

"Two broken ribs, caused by a blunt object, likely a baseball bat. One laceration to the cheek, nothing serious. Injury to the back of the head, likely what took him out first. Bruising on body caused by kicks from multiple assailants. It's difficult to tell, but the size of the bruising suggests the attackers were men, likely young to be able to hit so - "

Alfred coughed delicately. "I'm sure Mr Allen will be delighted you're making so much progress, sir, but I believe his actual question was whether Hal would be ok."

"Yes, of course." Compared to the sort of injuries Hal had likely suffered on some rowdy Saturday nights this was nothing, let alone near comparable to the wounds he had sustained as Green Lantern. "Tell Barry he'll be back in a few weeks at least."

He heard Alfred move out of the cave. Jordan was breathing deeply, occasionally grunting - and wasn't that typical, the man wasn't even capable of being quiet while unconscious. The cut across his face would heal with no scar. Whoever his assailants were, they'd left his face untouched. Bruce rubbed his jaw and moved his eyes lower. His torso and thighs were a livid pattern of bruises, and he had to shut his eyes and squeeze to push back that anger again.

There was a tattoo on Jordan's bicep, something he'd never noticed before. He reached out and touched it, running his fingers gently over the script without thinking. Fly-Fight-Win - part of the US Air Force motto. He had an image of Hal on his graduation night from the Academy, half-drunk and surrounded by cheering classmates in a late night tattoo parlour with a grin plastered on to disguise the pain.

"Touching up the patient, Bats?"

He dropped his hand. The shock made him gulp in too much air and he coughed, head bent with it. When he straightened up he found Jordan watching him, his eyes slits.

"What the hell happened to you, Jordan?"

"Well, see, they take a needle covered in ink - "

"Stop being facetious. That was poor, even by your standards."

Jordan sighed and tried to straighten up, stopping with a wince. He had only just remembered the broken ribs, then. Most people would have cried out at that point, but Jordan was apparently determined to keep up his macho bullshit even when seriously injured. 

"I was, uh... I was running seriously low on ring charge. Like, seconds left of charge. So I kind of crash landed in Gotham, figuring I could borrow a car from you and get home to recharge. Not my ideal plan, but the other option was death, so - "

"There's time to irritate me later. Go on."

"Not much happened. There were some guys following me - barely more than kids - yelling garbage." He paused to take a laboured breath. "They weren't even accurate, anyway. Thought I was hispanic. Anyway, I was turning around to correct them and inform them they were missing a real opportunity for anti-semitism and whatever the hell being anti-Italian is called, I don't even know if it's a fucking thing anymore, most of the casual dirtbags seem to think I'm hispanic. Then something hit me on the back of the head, all fade to black ect ect." He reached round and rubbed the back of his neck. "Who found me?"

"Red Robin"

"Tell him thanks. And... thank you, or Alfred's more likely I guess, for patching me up."

"It was me." He wanted to reach up and put his head in his hands, but he kept them clasped by his sides. "You said "most of the dirtbags"."

Hal closed his eyes. "I suppose I did."

"This happens a lot."

"What, getting beaten up outside uniform? My bar fighting days are largely over, Bats. Largely."

"I meant racial prejudice."

"Not a lot, no."

"But it happens."

"Sometimes. Not often. I look like my Dad. Mizrahi."

"My mother was Ashkenazi."

"Well gee, guess we have something to bond over."

Bruce leant back against the wall of the med bay. "It's a common mistake, in a way. Mizrahi are often mistaken with Shephardi. Shephardic means Hispania in Hebrew. Shepardi are technically Hispanic Jews."

"Thank god my attackers did the pre-reading before they hit me over the head with a pipe." He sat up again and swung his legs off the cot. "Well, I'll save you the trouble of telling me to leave. Any chance I could borrow a car?"

"You really think you're in a state to drive."

"Jesus Christ, give me the fare for the bus, then. I'll pay you back."

"Barry has gone to fetch your lantern. You can take one of the bedrooms and leave in the morning."

"And if Batman sayeth, it must be so." Hal was still clinging to the side of the cot, face almost quivering with the exertion of keeping a steady expression. 

"In Batman's house? Yes. Now get back in the bloody bed while I get you a wheelchair."

Jordan grimaced but did as he was told. When Bruce returned with the chair, he was deep in a brood. He helped him into the chair without comment.

"Bloody?"

It took Bruce a second to understand what he was referring to. "Raised by an Englishman, talk like one too."

"Can't picture Alfred swearing."

"Only in times of great stress."

"I imagine those happen more frequently than he'd like."

Bruce just hummed in response. He wasn't used to having to make these kind of conversational fillers. Brucie could generally fill a silence with a charming laugh, and those closest to Batman were used to him simply not responding if he didn't see the need to. But with Hal here and no cowl to cover him, he felt inclined to add these little touches of normality to himself. 

"Morning sun or afternoon sun?"

Hal shrugged, his shoulders pressing against Bruce's knuckles on the chair with the motion. "Whichever. Can I request a room with books in?"

Bruce thought for a second and wheeled him into the Blue room - plenty of bookcases, though he had no idea what was inside them, and slightly protruding from the house so it had windows facing east and south. He tried to help Hal into bed, but he waved him off.

"I can do fine from here. Go and solve some case. I'm sure there are more pressing things going on in Gotham than some tourist getting himself mugged."

He didn't have an answer for that, and he felt a hum would not be appropriate. So he left the room as quietly as possible.

* * *

Nothing seemed to have been stolen from Hal's pocket - phone and wallet were still there, along with a cheap lighter and a packet of Marlboro Reds, which he should probably talk to Jordan about sometime - so the attackers, whoever they were, would be a little bit harder to track down. The area Tim had found him in was part of a tangle of streets in Gotham's east end. High on he sort of people who would do this, low on security cameras. He sat, tapping rhythmically on the mouse pad as he examined the few video feeds there were. Then he went upstairs.

Hal was upright in bed reading when Bruce came in. He acknowledge him with a raised eyebrow and a curl at one corner of his mouth.

"What's the book?"

Hal flipped it towards him. "Moby Dick. Re-reading, actually. Found it on the bedstand. This is a beautiful copy."

"Not the sort of thing I would have expected you to enjoy."

"Right, because obviously I'm a dump pilot and my literary tastes only just extend to Dan Brown."

"Not what I meant. I... I always found Melville a little dry."

"Really? I find him surprisingly fresh for a guy writing in the mid-19th century. Some of the banter between sailors sounds almost like some of the shit I used to say at pilot bars. Hey, has Barry dropped by yet?"

"Trouble in Central. The Rogues are fucking about again." He rubbed his forehead. "And I need to ask you a few questions."

Hal closed the book quietly. "Sure. Shoot."

"Can you remember anything about your attackers? Their height, or what they were wearing, or - "

Hal fell back against his pillow with a groan. "Oh Jesus Christ, are you really doing this? I'm fine, forget them. Hasn't anyone broken out of Arkham recently?"

"A recent anonymous donation allowed them to upgrade security. Jordan. Focus."

"Look, why don't I just report this to the police? I'm sure they can handle this. Batman has more important things to do than chase down a few thugs."

"A member of the Justice League has been attacked. Batman has nothing more important to do."

"Yeah, but... Not in a... fine, fine. You know, it's not fair to out-stubborn me when I'm concussed."

"Do you always ramble this much or is it specially to annoy me?"

"It's pretty egoistical to think I'd put that much effort into annoying you." He coughed uncomfortably. "There were four of them. Two shaved heads, one mohawk, one short back and sides. The short top was ginger, the mohawk was bleach with red tips. Not a good look, gotta say. One of the skinheads was fairly chubby, the others all fairly well built. Can't remember what they were wearing. I swear the entire fucking city is too gloomy to get a look at anyone. Oh, and they were all white. Hey, if Barry doesn't swing by soon, can we get back to talking about you lending me a car?"

He ignored the last part. "I'll find them. Call Alfred if you need anything to drink."

He heard Hal swearing softly as he shut the door.

* * *

 

When he got back from patrol, Alfred informed him that Hal was gone. Barry had apparently appeared, fussed over him as Hal grew increasingly bored with it, and rushed him home, refusing to let him fly.

Dick rolled his eyes from his position on the desk (and if Bruce had told him not to sit on there once, he'd told him at least a hundred times). "Thank god. I don't think any of us could live with that much duelling testosterone floating through the house. Good patrol?"

He grunted in response, pulling up the gloves. Dick hopped off the desk as he walked towards it and went to look over the car, asking questions about each new scratch and dent. Bruce answered on automatic pilot.

The looped security feeds from the area and time Hal was assaulted were still running in the top left of the screen. He glanced round quickly to check that Dick wasn't looking, and then slowly rested his head in his hands.

 

 


End file.
